The Space Between
by Kiki Cabou
Summary: This has probably been done about a gazillion times, but here is my take on what we didn't see in Hot Shot, starting right after the last time we see Don at 355 Parker Street.
1. Part 1

Disclaimer: I don't own NUMB3RS.

Notes:

1) I love this show. It's bad-ass, gripping, dramatic … and adorable. Talk about a genre-hopper. :D Anyway, I was inspired by the final episode of Season 2 and wrote this. My goal was just to publish something, since I haven't for a while, and spray some rust-remover on my writing skills.

2) If you've got the time, try the following experiment: Watch "Hot Shot," pause it right after Don passes out, and then read this. When you're done with the story, go back to the show and finish the episode. I'd be curious to see if anyone tries this, and what they find.

3) However you decide to come at this, please tell me if it works for you or not. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

_**THE SPACE BETWEEN**_

Megan was SAC in Don's absence, so the call came through on her intercom the minute she reported their pursuit was over. She, Colby, and David had done quality work, and Mrs. Yates had played her part well in the end, but the team's take had turned out to be the homely waitress from the bar. While Lyndsey Fuller was obviously in cahoots with Chandler Yates, she wasn't the catch they'd been hoping for.

Megan pursed her lips in frustration and called it in.

"Team is no longer in pursuit, correct?" the calm voice said clearly over the headset.

"Roger that, control."

"In that case I have a message from 3695, requesting immediate back-up. Assault in progress. Code 3. 355 Parker St."

Megan was jogging towards Colby and David before the dispatcher even finished. "Copy that. We're on our way. What was the last transmission from 3695?"

"Agent down."

Megan felt her stomach clench. _Oh God._ She closed her eyes for a moment. "Paramedics en route?"

"Confirmed. Two rigs are on the way. Three attempts to reach 3695 since last transmission – no response."

"What's the ETA on the busses?"

"Approximately ten minutes."

"Roger that. I'm rolling. Any more information, send it through."

"That's a 10-4."

Control broke it off just as Megan stopped next to the other half of the FBI team, willing her face into its usual professional mask. Colby was talking to Mrs. Yates, who still looked a bit rattled. David was leaning casually on the grey FBI-issue Taurus he and Colby had arrived in. Lyndsey was ensconced in the backseat, squirming slightly with her hands cuffed behind her back and looking rather miserable.

"Agent Granger, Mrs. Yates, I'm sorry to interrupt, but we have to go."

"Why?" Colby asked. "What happened?"

Megan bit her lip. "Don went to investigate a residence and had to call for back-up. Code 3. Control just got…" She glanced at Mrs. Yates. "… a very disturbing transmission. We need to move. Now."

David cursed under his breath. Colby's eyebrows went up. Mrs. Yates, who had no idea what a Code 3 was or what any of this meant, looked hard at Megan. She wrapped her arms around herself slightly, her long elegant fingers making wrinkles in the sleeves of her sleek gray suit jacket.

"What does that mean? Is Chandler all right?"

"With all due respect, ma'am, Chandler isn't who we're worried about right now." Colby said this calmly, professionally. It was like he'd stolen the words right from Megan's head.

Megan was immediately glad she hadn't said them, as they earned him a very angry glare from Mrs. Yates.

"You're not concern –… What's the matter with you people? What's going on with my son?"

"We don't know," Megan said truthfully. "David, you drive Mrs. Yates home. Colby, get Fuller back to HQ and book her. I'll head to the scene. Soon as I have some information, I'll call. Split up everybody, let's go!"

The team flew into motion at once. Megan ran for her car. Colby jogged around the Taurus for the driver's side and clapped his hands, holding them out to make a catch. David tossed him the keys over the hood and stepped back from the car, gallantly offering his arm to Mrs. Yates. She accepted it tentatively as he fished his cell phone from his pocket to call for a cab. Colby lit up the grey sedan. Megan jumped into her own black model, slammed the door, put it in drive and tore off. She'd gone half a mile before she remembered her seat belt.

* * *

The LAPD perimeter was up by the time Megan arrived at 355 Parker Street, lights flashing on her dashboard but the siren cut. Control had verified on the way over that this was Lyndsey Fuller's residence. If Don had suspicions about her, suspicions that apparently were right on the money, it made perfect sense that he would check out her place. Two ambulances were on the scene. She slammed the gearshift into park, hopped out and ran for the house, drawing her weapon on instinct, only to be stopped at the yellow tape. She flashed her badge at a uniformed LAPD officer, who let her through the tape and she dashed across the lawn, under the porch, and into the foyer.

The house, typical, small, and ugly, was fully lit. So much about Fuller was typical and ugly, Megan thought uncharitably. David had recognized her from the bar, making the ID right about when he was slamming her against the Lexus and cuffing her. She wondered vaguely what the woman was doing helping a loser like Yates. Once they got Don sorted out, she'd try to make some headway on that front.

Don.

The tall blond FBI agent took a moment to get her head back in the game and concentrated on getting through the house with her eyes properly open. LAPD had CSI with them, and the officers were swarming around the front rooms like ants. Megan found herself in the brightly lit kitchen. She heard the squeak of gurney wheels and sidestepped the oncoming object just in time, as well as the two paramedics hauling it along. A girl, blonde and pretty, lipstick and hair all over the place and clearly in shock, was bundled in a white blanket and strapped down for transport. The paramedic pushing from the rear had her IV bag in his teeth so it could drip properly. He nodded at Megan.

"He saved me," the girl slurred, as they approached. "Thank him for me. He saved me."

"What? Who saved you?" Megan asked, leaning over her and momentarily stopping the gurney.

"The man with the gun. He was on the other side of the window. He put his finger on his lips …"

"Hang in there, miss, we're getting you to the hospital," the medic in front said. He looked at Megan. "She's been like this since we found her. Hasn't made a lick of sense. Are you FBI?"

She nodded. "Where was she?"

"In the bedroom. Somebody duct taped her to a bed in preparation for God-knows-what. We're taking her in to get her checked out." The guy jerked his head down the hall. "The other live one's in the living room. Team 2 just got to him."

"Thanks."

She waited until they were past her and made her way into the living room, the girl's bizarre statement rattling in her ears. The living room was sort of a bland, cream-of-wheat color, with hideous orange carpeting and way too much polyester. There were bookshelves, couches, a TV. A black piano was nestled against one wall; it was disturbingly normal. But then her eyes found the broken glass on the floor, and the syringe dripping onto the carpet, and Yates, face-up and eyes open, making an impressive stain on said carpet, and Don.

Two paramedics were kneeling next to him where he lay on his back, crumpled against the wall. It looked like he'd made some attempt to protect himself. His right shoulder was jammed into the stained oak baseboard and he'd cocked his head in the same direction, leaving his neck in an obviously uncomfortable position and his forehead pressed gently against the wood. Even unconscious, he hadn't let go of his gun.

Megan said nothing. She just breathed out, very relieved that the "live one" was Don and not Yates. She took in the scene with her big green eyes as she knelt down next to the paramedics, holstering her weapon slowly. One of the uniformed workers had his latex-gloved hands under Don's head, and was gently prying him away from the wall.

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" he said. Don didn't respond.

The second medic pulled up Don's shirt so he could listen with a stethoscope, and felt his wrist for a pulse. Megan didn't even bother asking what happened. She took in the dripping syringe and the remains of a wine bottle and put two and two together. She found her voice.

"Get Crime Scene in here!" she called, twisting around. A uniform hovering in the doorway behind her nodded at the instruction and ran off to get some help.

"I got some small head lacs back here," said the first paramedic, and winced. "Ouch. And glass. Some kind of bump on his neck, too."

"Resps are slow, breathing is labored, and pulse is a little weak," said the second paramedic, popping the stethoscope buds out of his ears. "I don't like it. He needs oxygen and we should get him out of here. Mike, stay with him."

Mike, the guy with Don's head in his hands, nodded. "Bring the Circle. His head's kind of messy – I don't want it hitting the gurney."

The other man nodded in response, deftly weaved around Megan and left. Megan smiled gently at the remaining worker. He smiled back and carefully got one arm under Don's shoulders, moving him just enough to give his right shoulder room to relax and laying him flat on the carpet.

"Do you think he was drugged?" Megan asked quietly, glancing at the syringe.

"Probably," Mike said, starting to check his torso and arms for other injuries. "If he just got beaned with a bottle that could be enough to knock him out for a few minutes, but it's been way too long, and his breathing isn't right."

The medic took a small pen light from his pocket and gently lifted Don's eyelids, flicking the light across his brown eyes. "Yep," he said. "Small pupils, and the reaction is slow. He got zapped with something."

He carefully pried Don's fingers off the gun and handed it to Megan, who ripped a tissue from the travel pack in her pocket and shook it out. With the tissue over the handle, she accepted it. Mike began to feel along Don's legs for broken bones, having gotten nothing off his chest and arms. Megan knelt there examining the Glock, removing the clip and counting the missing bullets, until a CSI tapped her on the shoulder and held out a plastic bag. She loaded the clip back in properly and deposited the weapon inside.

The investigator took a few pictures of the syringe on the floor and a few of Yates before bagging the needle. Megan turned her attention to Mike, who was just finishing up the examination, taking Don's temperature with an ear thermometer. It didn't look like Don had any other injuries, although the medic clucked his tongue at the reading.

"What?" Megan asked.

"He's cold."

Without preamble, Mike turned Don on his side and began to gently touch the back of his head. Blood was clotting and drying on his spiky dark hair. He pulled out a few small pieces of glass and put them on the ground a safe distance away before digging some gauze from his pack and taping it over the wounds. The cotton began to darken almost immediately.

The CSI guy had just finished scribbling something on the evidence bag with a Sharpie. Megan stopped him and flashed her badge.

"Um, I need to take that with me, unless you can tell me what's in it. The hospital will need to know what he was drugged with so they can treat him. After that, it's all yours."

"Sure thing," the new guy said. "Just make sure their lab sends it along to us quickly, so the processing doesn't get held up."

"Not a problem. Any idea what's in it?"

The CSI shook his head. "No. Although judging by his condition, it's probably an opiate. Looks like somebody attempted to give him a hot shot." Megan was in full professional mode, but she still felt her jaw tighten. Fortunately the CSI guy wasn't looking her way. He furrowed his brow and carefully checked the needle in the evidence bag, holding it up to the light. "Good news is, it doesn't look like too much of this stuff made it into him. That actually bodes pretty well. Are you his partner?"

"I'm part of his team. Megan Reeves, FBI."

"Nice to meet you," Mike said. "And he is …?"

"Special Agent Don Eppes."

"Always good to have a name," Mike said, trying for cheerful but not quite making it. "UCLA's closest. We'll be taking him there. The other crew is already on their way with the one from the bedroom."

"Okay. Thanks." Megan stood and took out her cell phone, ready to call the team and tell them where she was heading. "He's dead, right?" she asked, pointing at Yates to clarify, and then immediately felt stupid for even inquiring. Anyone with functioning eyeballs could tell that the other man was history.

"Um, yes," Mike said patiently. "Steve and I had to check him before we got to Agent Eppes. I don't know how many shots your guy got off, but he hasn't had a pulse since we got here and that stain is … big. We just figured we shouldn't move him, you know, for them." Realizing he was babbling a little, he broke off and thumbed at the CSI guy who, as though punctuating the statement, took another picture of Yates.

Megan nodded, and absentmindedly put the cell phone back in her pocket. Calling the team could wait. The suspect was dead, and right now her job was to be here for Don and stay out of the way. Mike and the CSI guy worked in complete silence for almost a minute. Mike was mostly holding Don steady, bracing his head and neck in preparation for the arrival of his partner, and the CSI guy kept snapping pictures.

The silence was broken when Steve came back, a grey blanket slung over one shoulder. He was dragging a squeaky gurney, which he parked nearby, and his free hand clutched a thick, donut-shaped pillow. It looked vaguely like the ones that people with hemorrhoids used to be comfortable in office chairs, but thicker. Megan didn't need ideas about hemorrhoids right now. She focused her attention on the portable oxygen device hooked to one side of the gurney.

"All right, let's do this. You find anything else?" Steve asked.

"He's safe to move, but body temp's down," Mike replied. "CSI said it's a good bet that whatever was in that syringe is rolling around inside him. I'll start a line when we get to the car."

Steve nodded, and picked up Don's limp legs. Mike got his shoulders and head as best he could. They shared a nod, and with clean efficiency they hefted Don onto the gurney, settling him gently on his back. Megan realized with pride that these paramedics were something like her FBI team; they worked very well in tandem, very efficiently, and very fast. Steve slipped the oxygen mask over Don's mouth and nose and started the machine while Mike, never letting go of her fellow agent's upper body, slid the donut pillow under his neck, stabilizing his head while elevating it just enough to keep the back of it from hitting the gurney. Steve quickly spread the grey blanket over Don and tucked it around him while Mike strapped him down to ready him for transport. Moving as one, they snapped the guard rails into place and bore him away.

Megan walked with them all the way to the ambulance, staying on Don's right and looking down at him way too much as they left the house and quickly made their way across the lawn. The scariest part of this, she decided, was the deceptively peaceful look on her boss's pale face.

* * *

"Just calling to check in," Colby said.

"Anything interesting happen at Booking?" Megan asked, bent over and studying the tile floor in the waiting area.

UCLA Medical Center had a fine ER. Don was in good hands. She planned on telling Colby something along those lines, right after she caught her breath and he asked the inevitable question.

In a way, Megan was kind of glad that Colby had called her first. It saved her the trouble of working herself up to call him. She wasn't sure why she had dawdled about informing the team about what had happened to Don; maybe the scene at the house had freaked her out more than she thought. The blood and Yates's dead body wasn't a big deal. She'd seen that before. But there was something fundamentally wrong with an unconscious Don Eppes spread out on a carpet. Besides being a nice person, he was their leader – strong, intelligent, direct, loud – the epitome of a body in motion. He had just been so … still.

"… kinda squirmed when they fingerprinted her, but that was about it," Colby was saying. "She's in a holding cell for the night. She used her one phone call to talk to her sister, although what they talked about is anybody's guess. We'll interview her tomorrow. So what the hell happened at the house? What's the word on Don? Is he okay?"

Megan sighed and told him what she knew about the crime scene, and what she figured had happened to cause it. The needle was on its way to the hospital's lab to figure out what was in it, and Don was being worked on by the doctors. Colby offered to call David, so that David could tell Mrs. Yates the news about her son. In any case, it was one less person for Megan to call. She took him up on his offer.

Besides, calling Charlie was going to be difficult enough. She'd called the house, hoping to talk to Alan, but he was apparently out and she was forced to leave a message on the answering machine to call her back. She was trying not to alarm him, and hoped her tone had been okay – not too panicked, but urgent enough to get him to call her back immediately and then hurry over.

She sighed and hit speed dial five. At least one Eppes had to be informed directly.

* * *

Charlie yawned. He'd been working late again – more Cognitive Emergence stuff that wouldn't release him until he'd scribbled it on the boards in his office – and was finally on his way home from CalSci. The ringing of his cell phone startled him … and then made him furrow his brow … and then roll his eyes. He'd left his phone unattended for a few minutes yesterday at the FBI office and some practical joker (probably his older brother) had switched his ringer from the awesome John Mayer sample he'd downloaded to that incredibly stupid version of "When the Saints Go Marching In" – the dorkiest ringtone ever invented.

He gritted his teeth. Don was going to get it as soon as this case was over. He hadn't had a phone call for over twenty-four hours, but what if someone had called him during the Math Department conference today? He'd never live it down. He fumbled for his jeans pocket, snatched his phone out and answered it, wondering vaguely if it was his brother, saying the case was solved.

"Hello?"

"Charlie? It's Megan."

"Hi Megan, what can I do for you?"

"Are you driving?" she asked. She sounded tired, although there was a bit of amusement in her voice.

"Yes," he said a little sheepishly. He knew he wasn't supposed to drive and carry on a cell phone conversation at the same time, especially with his limited skill and experience behind the wheel. Don and the FBI team had playfully razzed him for it on a few occasions, but he just couldn't help multi-tasking.

"Pull over. Please."

That instruction stopped him dead. He did as he was told, finding the first available curb spot he could (it was red but whatever, he was in the car, it wasn't as though he was parking here) and putting more weight on the brake than he needed to. Something was really wrong. He could tell by Megan's tone of voice.

The words were out before he even knew why they were coming. "What happened to Don?"

There was a sigh on the other end. "He was forced to capture a suspect without back-up, and the guy sneaked up on him. I only saw what happened afterwards, but –"

Charlie cut her off. "Where is he? Is he in the hospital?"

"Yes. UCLA – Medical Center, not the Plaza. Trauma's on the ground level."

Charlie took a second to center himself. "All right," he said, his voice as firm as he could make it. "I'll be there as fast as I can. Have you called my father?"

"I tried to. He's not in. I left a message on the landline, and his cell went straight to voicemail."

Charlie groaned. "Of course it did. The damn thing's probably still on his night stand. You know, so he always knows where it is," he snapped in disgust. "That's my father, always thinking."

Despite the situation, Megan produced a small laugh. "Where do you think he could be?"

"I honestly don't know." Charlie paused then, his thoughts racing, as images of his father in danger started bubbling up. "Oh man, I hope he calls you back."

Megan, recognizing the first signs of Charlie-panic, refocused his attention on the immediate situation. "Charlie, no. No freaky thoughts. Just get over here. If you can stay and wait for Don, I'll go find your Dad. Deal?"

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm down. Megan was right – panicking wouldn't help anybody. "Deal."

"Good."

Charlie flipped his phone shut and tore out of his impromptu parking spot, making tracks for the hospital, trying to calculate the best route. It was 9:30 on a Tuesday night – not rush hour by any means. He was closing in on the Arroyo Parkway. Maybe he could just hit the 110, shoot through downtown and catch the 10 west out to … what was it, National? No, wait, it was further. The 405. The 405 to Wilshire. Now he remembered. He gave his blue Prius a little more gas and blew out a breath. Traffic wasn't operating at peak capacity right now, but the freeways rarely obeyed the laws of reason around here.

* * *

David stared at Mrs. Yates. She stared back. The FBI agent ran a hand over his shaved head and wondered if he'd somehow entered the Twilight Zone through her Victorian-styled dining room. As it was, he was wildly out of place in his suit amidst the doilies and china. But he couldn't believe he'd just heard that.

"I'm sorry?"

Mrs. Yates folded her hands in her lap and looked down. "I don't expect you to understand, Agent Sinclair."

"Ma'am, I just told you your son was dead, and you said 'Good.' That's not exactly a typical reaction. Forgive me for being a little surprised."

"I do forgive you. And you're right, it's not normal." She arched her eyebrows at David and studied him for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. "You have to understand something about Chandler: he used people. He used me. Yes, he was my son, and yes I loved him, and _yes_, perhaps I have a part in this, because I let his lazy behavior go on too long and then cut him off too quickly. But he did a terrible thing, and he died for it. And … maybe it's better that way. Maybe it's better."

Her cheeks were shaking a little, and soon her shoulders joined in. This, David was familiar with. He found a box of tissues on the sideboard and brought them to the table, where he set them down in front of her without a word. She took one and used it to hide her crumpling face, perhaps dull the noise of her sobs. It didn't matter how old the child was, David reflected. In the end, a mother's reaction to outliving him was the same. He sighed.


	2. Part 2

_Part 2_

Charlie parked his car in the first space he found. It was all the way at the back of the lot, very far from the doors, but he couldn't be bothered. A space was a space, and this little exercise was all about minimizing travel time and frustration stemming from driving. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced. The time he saved looking for a closer parking space gave him more control. He would now be able to make his way to the hospital using a more reliable mode of transport, unaffected by the rules and irritations of traffic: his legs.

He practically sprinted across the parking lot.

By the time he skittered into the waiting area, he had to pause and get some air. While doing so, he looked around for Megan. The sleek, modern waiting room was about half full; it took him a moment to locate her among the coughers and the sneezers and the minor bleeders. He finally spotted her off to one side, intent on a magazine, long legs crossed at the knee, straight ponytail flopping over one shoulder.

He made his way over and sat down next to her. She looked up, and they shared a sad smile.

"You got here okay?" she asked, and looked at her watch. Her eyes went wide. "Twenty minutes? From _Pasadena_? Charlie, you must have been doing a hundred!"

Charlie at least had the grace to look embarrassed about his crazy driving, but rallied quickly. "The roads were clear, and nobody pulled me pulled over," he rationalized. "How's Don? What happened to him?"

Megan sighed. "Well, there's no word yet. They brought him in here with a minor head injury, and he got injected with something. Probably right before he shot Yates."

Charlie blinked at her. "Is Yates dead?"

"Oh yeah," Megan said, with a bit of grim pride. "Judging from the scene it looks like he attacked Don and _really_ paid for it. Don plugged him at center mass before he passed out. Five times."

Charlie needed a second to wrap his brain around that. "Wow. I mean, I always knew Don was tough, but …"

Megan smiled. "He's going to be okay. I can feel it. It didn't look too bad when they brought him in. So look, good news, your dad just called me. I'm going to go pick him up at the house. You can wait here?"

Charlie nodded at Megan. The agent looked exhausted, but also slightly pleading, like she'd rather be anywhere but the hard plastic seat she was currently occupying. She was chewing her lower lip.

"I certainly will," Charlie said kindly. "If they come out with news, I'll call you."

"Good. Okay, shift change!" she said, with some attempt at her usual cheer. She patted his knee, unfolded her tall, skinny self from the plastic seat and stood up. "I'll be back."

"Drive safe."

"That would fall under 'do as I say, not as I do,' right?" she asked, with a sly grin.

Charlie crossed his arms. "Ha ha. I've got my phone. Call if you need anything."

Megan nodded and left. Charlie, remembering his cell phone, took a moment and reset the ringer. About ten seconds after this little task it occurred to him that he was now the designated waiter in a large impersonal urban hospital … and he hadn't brought a single thing to do. With a sigh, he picked up the magazine Megan had abandoned. It was a dirty, roughed-up copy of Cosmo from about five months ago – one of those publications with too many fashion ads and not enough writing. He cracked it open.

"Let's see," he mumbled, wrinkling his brow like this demanded serious study. "_What Kind of Animal Are You in Bed?_ Page sixty-eight. Okay, let's find out." He started flipping pages to find the quiz.

* * *

Colby stared hard at Lyndsey Fuller. "Why'd you help that d-bag, anyway?" he asked, almost conversationally.

"Go to hell," she murmured, and turned away from the bars.

Fuller was safely in a holding cell and Colby was about to leave for the hospital, to wait with the others for word on Don, but he had to at least give it a try.

"You know, you don't have to protect him anymore. He's dead."

That got her attention. "What?"

"Yeah. He sneaked up on my SAC and got shot for his trouble."

Lyndsey looked like her knees were about to give way. "You're lying."

Colby shook his head. "No, I'm not. We'll be talking to you tomorrow. The wisest thing for you to do, when that happens, is to tell the truth. See you later."

* * *

Charlie was bored. He had already discovered that he was a "badger," snorted his way through the hilariously inaccurate "What Guys Are Really Thinking!" section, and was on his way to discover some unusual skin remedies when …

"Donald Eppes?"

He threw the magazine aside and stood up. A white, thirty-something redheaded guy with glasses was standing about ten feet away, scratching at a stain on his blue scrubs. He held a clipboard and eyed Charlie as he approached.

"Donald Eppes?" the doctor said again, when Charlie stopped next to him.

"I'm his brother, Charles," Charlie said, and held out a hand.

He and the doctor shook.

"Dr. Clarke. I was your brother's attending physician in the ER."

It felt pretty weird to be doing this all alone, but Charlie pressed forward. He put his hands on his hips and tried to look as though he did stuff like this every day. Nobody else was here to take charge and for once Don seemed to be his responsibility rather than the other way around. The idea sent a surge of strength up through his legs. He looked the doctor square in the eye.

"Can you tell me anything? Or better yet, can I see him?"

The doctor smiled. "I can tell you some things, and yes, you can. Come on."

He walked quickly down the hall and Charlie kept pace.

"Basically, your brother got extremely lucky. Do you know what a hot shot is?"

"It's a lethal dose of a drug, right?"

"An opiate, specifically," the doctor added, nodding. "Generally it's administered with a needle, which was what Agent Reeves handed us. In this case, the offending drug was morphine."

Charlie did his best to still his face. _Jesus Christ._ "He got lucky, you said?"

"Definitely. There were about 50 milligrams of morphine in the needle originally, enough to kill a person, but we figured that at most only 25 of them made their way into your brother. Now granted, that's still a bit much for a guy his size, but barring any complications, he should just wake up with a headache and wonder what happened. Your brother is … in law enforcement?"

"FBI."

"Ah. 'Attacked by a suspect' is what I was told. Donald must have put up a hell of a fight."

Charlie considered explaining that his brother had put five bullets in said suspect, but refrained. "Don," he corrected the doctor. "And I have no doubt that he did. So, morphine and …?"

"Some minor head lacerations. Apparently he was hit with a wine bottle. Caused some cuts and a small lump, and we had to rinse out some glass, but the wounds were mostly very small, and there was no concussion. He only needed a few stitches. So we cleaned him up and got him into a room. Visiting hours are over, but I'm sure the nurses can make an exception."

They had stopped at the elevators. The doctor pressed the "UP" button and checked the chart he had.

"Fourth floor. Check in at the nurses' station and they'll direct you from there."

"Thank you very much," Charlie said calmly, and shook the man's hand again. "I appreciate it. Um, when do you think he'll wake up?"

"Oh, sometime tomorrow, I expect – probably late morning, early afternoon."

"So, get here early?"

"I wouldn't hurry. Between the bump on the head and the morphine, he's gonna be out like a light for a while."

Charlie nodded. "Thanks again."

"Not at all."

The doors opened and he stepped in. It wasn't until after the doors closed, separating him from the doctor and the rest of the world, that he allowed himself to slump against the wall in exhaustion. Without a lazy gesture, he jabbed the button for the fourth floor.

By the time the doors opened again, Charlie's strong mask was back in place. He walked straight to the nurse's station, introduced himself, and asked to see his brother. The nurse at the counter eyed him suspiciously and asked for identification. He showed her his CalSci ID and, when she remained stoic and unimpressed and demanded to see something else, he pulled out his NSA clearance.

"Is that all right?" he asked politely.

Her eyes went a little wide. "408 is that way," she said, and pointed. "I can let you visit until eleven."

"What about tomorrow morning?"

"Well, the hours start at ten, but I guess I could let family in at nine."

"That would be great," Charlie said with a confident smile.

He moved quickly to 408, taking a little time to compose himself at the door before opening it.

Whatever he'd been expecting, this was not it. He was relieved. The room was mostly bare and sterile, but not oppressively so. There was a bed, a rolling stool, a night table, and a large window. The blinds were halfway open, letting in a little moonlight. A heart monitor was beeping. But there were only a few machines as opposed to the oppressive technology he'd imagined while giving into panic on the drive over and Don, other than the little oxygen tube running under his nose, the leads on his chest and an IV in one arm, frankly didn't look so bad. A little pale, a little still, _definitely_ out like a light, but otherwise blessedly okay.

Charlie's strength left him for a moment. He rolled the stool up to the bed and plopped onto it so he could get a better look at his brother. Don was bundled up in a few blankets, which Charlie wondered about. It wasn't critical; he could ask the doctor later. He rolled the stool close enough to put his elbows on the mattress so he could prop his face on his palms.

For a solid minute, he watched the heart monitor beeping steadily.

"I'm sorry he got the jump on you," he said at last. "I'm just glad you turned it around on him before he could really hurt you. Mostly I'm glad you're all right." He gently squeezed his brother's limp right hand through the blankets. "I'm gonna call Megan, see where she is with Dad. You'll be okay if I step out in the hall for a moment?"

Predictably, Don had nothing to say.

Charlie licked his lips and stood up, a little wobbly. He made his way outside and placed a few phone calls. Megan picked up immediately – she was indeed on her way with Alan. The eldest Eppes had been out doing some last-minute shopping, because he was planning a surprise for the caterer tomorrow. They were on their way, and, she said with a wince that Charlie could practically hear, he'd cancelled tomorrow's date in view of the situation with Don. Charlie gave her directions up to the fourth floor and called David, followed by Colby, to give them the same information. Both were on their way. There was nothing more that David could do for Mrs. Yates, Colby was done with Lyndsey Fuller for now, and they wanted to see their boss.

They all converged on the fourth floor nurses' station at approximately the same time. Charlie came out to meet them, shoulders back, head up, looking as strong as he could. With Don out of commission for the moment, he figured it was up to him to lead.

"Hi, everybody. Come on, follow me. We have about twenty minutes with Don, and then they're kicking us out until tomorrow morning."

He turned and walked away, his chest out just a little bit. Everyone followed. David, Colby, and Megan were trying not to laugh at his bravado. Alan just raised an eyebrow.

So this was Charlie's tough-guy impression, Megan realized. It was pretty funny. Of course she was also pretty tired, so everything was a little funnier right now than it should be. The small flock of FBI agents, an academic and a retiree made its way down the blindingly white hallway to Don's room.

Just as they approached the door a bespectacled Asian doctor, maybe thirty, spiky black hair cut short, approached from the opposite direction. His expression was bland and he was reading a chart, not making eye contact with any of them. Megan wondered vaguely if he was Don's doctor. It was almost like playing "chicken." If he was, why wasn't he making eye contact? If he wasn't, who was he going to see? In the end, the mystery was solved when the doctor followed them into the room, closed the door behind him, and looked up with a patient smile.

"Hi everybody," he said kindly. He sounded like a native Angeleno. There was no trace of an accent. "I'm Dr. Huang. I'll be overseeing Don's care until his release."

He took in the variety of faces and skin tones before him. "Uh … you're all family?"

Colby and David gave him identical amused expressions. Charlie muttered, "Basically." Only Megan was close enough to hear him, and she grinned. Alan just looked around with a tired, accepting expression, and gave the doctor a noncommittal shrug.

"I'm sure whatever you have to say can be shared with everyone here," he said quietly.

The doctor smiled. "All right."

He gave them the run-down. Don would most likely wake up tomorrow with a headache, and also feeling a little sick and thirsty, both common side-effects of too much morphine. Once he came around, the doctor wanted to keep him under observation for a few hours to make sure he was okay, and then he'd be released. Charlie asked about the blankets. Dr. Huang assured him it was nothing to worry about. Getting cold was another common bodily response to the drug, and once the morphine was out of Don's system, he'd be back to normal.

By the time the doctor had finished explaining, the mood in the room had brightened considerably. David and Colby were nodding. Megan was chewing on her thumbnail, but she looked almost as assured as her colleagues. And Alan looked more settled, far less shaken. The doctor took a quick look at Don and left, allowing them all some privacy until eleven o'clock. Charlie and the rest of the FBI team clumped together by the window to quietly discuss what would happen with the case. Alan, unnoticed by everybody, walked over to the bedside of his eldest and ran his left hand through Don's hair. He laid his right on his son's chest, and seemed satisfied that it was rising and falling appropriately. Then he closed his eyes and let out a breath.

"Thank God," he mumbled.

* * *

_Oh man. My head … has been used … for a dance floor. By elephants. Ow. Oh, throbbing. Throbbing not good. And here comes the pressure. Christ, I'm not … even talking. It literally hurts … to __**think**__. … Ow._

All right, time to take stock. Position: mostly flat. He was on his back, with a couple of pillows under him. Temperature: comfortably warm. There were soft blankets covering him. Location: no clue. What was that beeping noise? He had to figure out where he was. He opened his eyes.

Okay, perhaps "open" was too strong a verb, but he produced slits through which he could see a little bit. Sadly, those slits let in light, which was not his friend at the moment. He wanted to say hello, to ask if anybody was here with him. He wanted to ask if someone could please shut off the lights.

"Liiihh. Mrrf. Nnnuh," he said.

_What the hell was that Eppes, your final exam for Gibberish 101? Damn, that was kinda scary. Hey, wait a minute. I can complete a sentence in my head. Maybe … _

There was a sudden commotion with paper somewhere to his right, and then the bed was sinking a little, and a hand cupped the top of his arm. He felt a thumb rubbing the crux of his shoulder.

"Don?"

Charlie. Charlie was here, wherever "here" was. That was good. He tried saying "Charlie," in hopes of convincing his little brother (and perhaps himself) that he hadn't somehow woken up a drooling moron.

"Shhharlie?" he asked quietly, and coughed. Immediately there was another hand behind his neck, cool, strong, and bony, pulling on some kind of tape there. It was lifting his head up a little. The hand on his shoulder disappeared and a moment later, a straw bumped against his lips. He took the straw and got a sip of water. It was cold and wonderful. He took another sip, bigger this time, swallowed, focused, and tried again.

"Charlie?" This time it came out almost clearly.

"Yeah Don, I'm right here." His head met the pillow again and the hand behind his neck slipped away, only to materialize on his forehead. "Just take it easy. You're in the hospital. It's almost noon. Good thing you woke up – you've been boring the hell out of Dad and me all morning."

The joke fell flat. It sounded more like he'd been _worrying_ the hell out of them all morning. Don decided not to comment.

"C'subbuddy…" He swallowed. "Kill the lights?" he said quietly. _There. Five words, and three of them coherent. Yay._

"What's the matter, you can't see?" Charlie asked.

"Too bright," Don murmured. "Hurts my eyes."

"Oh. Yeah sure, hang on a second." The hand on his forehead left, and Don heard the squeak and patter of sneakers around his bed and the swish of blinds closing. "Uh, Don, I can't make the lights go all the way off – they're on a dimmer. But I'll get it as dark as possible, okay?"

"Okay."

"… All right, that's as low as it goes. Try to open your eyes again."

Don managed to get his eyelids to half-mast this time, and looked around the darkened room, which was a little swimmy. He could just make out the dual outline of his brother.

"Can I turn up the light a little bit?"

"Yeah."

So Charlie brought up the dimmer switch a little. Don blinked and let his eyes adjust, and Charlie clicked it up again. It took about a minute, but finally the lights were up all the way and Don was focusing on him, as that seemed to hold the room tolerably steady. That was the way Alan found them when he came in, carrying two coffee cups.

"Hey, Charlie, they ran out of coffee, so I got you some hot chocolate inst– whoa! Donnie! When did you wake up?"

"Just now," Charlie answered for him, taking the cup his father offered.

"Oh, that's great," Alan said. He set his coffee down on the nightstand and leaned over Don. "Leave it to you to do the important stuff the second I'm out of the room," he groused with good humor.

"Sorry," Don croaked. "Force of habit."

Alan smiled and pulled the blankets up to Don's neck. "How ya feeling?"

"Lil' dizzy. My head hurts, but other than that … I'm fine."

Alan snorted. "'Fine,' huh? We'll see about that. I'll go get Dr. Huang. Charlie, you stay here with him."

Charlie nodded obediently, waited until Alan was out of hearing range, and then let it rip. "No Dad, I'm think I'm going to abandon Don and run off to join the circus," he said sarcastically, taking a small sip of his hot chocolate.

Don smiled, and licked his lips. "Hey, Charlie, can I have some more water? Maybe sit up a little?"

Charlie was up in a second. "Uh … water, yes, but I don't know about the other."

Don managed to drink half the glass before Alan came back with Dr. Huang and a petite blonde nurse, who was pulling a small rolling cart. Both of them strapped on latex gloves and got to work.

The doctor raised the head of Don's bed, waited for the resulting dizziness to pass, and examined him, checking his head wounds and the site of the injection, changing the small dressings and poking him at various spots. A few pokes made him wince, but it was nothing major. The nurse seemed to be fiddling with something further south.

"Well, the injection site and the head lacs are coming along nicely," Dr. Huang said finally. "Just put antiseptic ointment on them and keep the bigger ones covered with a little gauze. They should heal up fast." He turned to Charlie. "I'll write him a prescription for the ointment before he's discharged. He was talking when he woke up?"

"Yes." Charlie mercifully neglected to mention that Don's first attempts at talking had been less than coherent. "He's dizzy, though."

Don very much wanted to pin Charlie with a glare, but moving his eyes too fast made his head spin, so he nixed that idea.

"I'm not surprised," said the doctor. "That should fade away pretty soon." He felt different areas of Don's face, gently put his thumbs under Don's eye sockets and asked him to look up, down, and sideways.

"Okay, just a few questions – standard practice for a head injury. I know yours was minor, but we have to do it. What's your name?"

Don almost laughed. "Don Eppes."

"Good. Do you know who this man is?" he asked, pointing at Charlie.

_Oh, come on. You're kidding, right?_ "That's my bro-THAAH! Whoa!"

He bucked his legs in surprise, but Dr. Huang grabbed one leg, the nurse had the other, and his father was suddenly standing, pressing a hand on Don's chest to keep him flat. Charlie was standing off to one side, looking pointedly at the floor. Something was happening … down there. It didn't hurt, but it felt _extremely_ weird. And then it was over. Dr. Huang settled back into his seat. Don was breathing a little hard.

"What the hell was _that_?" he snapped.

The nurse looked up at him. "Sorry," she said. "But that's it, I'm all done." She patted his legs, flipped the blankets back over him and stood up, holding a clear plastic bag full of bright yellow liquid and a long, long tube attached, which she deposited on the cart.

Don, mystified, blinked at the doctor and raised his eyebrows in question.

"Catheter," the doctor said. "We pumped a lot of IV fluids into you so your system could clean itself out, and with you unconscious, well …"

Don groaned. Dr. Huang laughed. "Had to be done, sir. Our apologies. Now again, the guy with the curly hair is …?" he asked.

"My brother Charlie." Charlie had moved back into his previous position, standing behind the doctor.

"Excellent. What day is it?"

"Uh…"

Don had no idea what day it was. This wasn't because of his head injury – he was just tired, and he tended to lose track of time on cases anyway. Fortunately, Charlie came to his rescue. Since he was standing right behind the doctor, he watched the nurse messing with the cart, waited until the exact moment that Alan turned and stared at Don like "Well?", and mouthed "WEDNESDAY!" at his brother.

"Uh, Wednesday," Don said nonchalantly, as though it had just come to him. He'd have to thank Charlie later.

"Doing great," the doctor said. "Occupation?"

"Special Agent with the FBI," Don replied, sounding a little bored.

"That's so cool, man," said the doctor, scribbling something on the chart. He looked up and shrugged at Don's surprised face. "My big brother is LAPD. I wanted to join too, but Mom said she could barely handle _one_ cop in the family."

Charlie grinned from his spot.

"Are you serious?" Alan said with interest.

"Yep." Dr. Huang stripped off his gloves. "I was two years into college and I brought home the brochures for the police academy." He smirked at the memory. "Mom freaked out, and Dad had a fit. They both said 'no way.' So I went into medicine. Speaking of which … Agent Eppes, we need to draw some more blood for a new tox screen, to make sure your levels are okay. Kelly, would you?"

The nurse nodded, and opened a drawer on the rolling cart, digging out a strip of rubber, a needle, and some vials. Don watched her with grim anticipation.

"And Agent, I know you haven't had any food in a pretty long time. Do you feel up to eating something?" the doctor said, distracting him.

"Uh…"

His stomach made a noise, causing his physician to smile. "I'll take that as a yes. Kelly, when you're done send those samples to the lab and put in an order for a light lunch. I'll be back in a few hours."

"You got it," Kelly said.

"Thanks," Don said.

"No problem," Dr. Huang replied, and left, hanging Don's chart on the door and closing it behind him.

The three Eppes men were left with Kelly. Don looked unenthusiastically at the rather young nurse as she approached him with her supplies. "No offense, but you know what you're doing, right?"

Alan slapped his shoulder.

"Ow! What?"

"If she didn't know what she was doing, she wouldn't be here," Alan said sternly.

The implied statement of _"you show some respect, young man"_ came through loud and clear. It had been something of a childhood mantra.

Don sighed through his nose, subdued but completely unrepentant. Alan glared at him, which was a waste of energy as Don only had eyes for the nurse and what she was about to do to him. And Charlie, who had zero interest in watching a blood extraction (or a confrontation between his dad and his brother), walked over to the window and stared out, hands clasped behind his back.

Kelly almost fought off her grin. Almost. She flipped up the blankets to expose Don's left arm, since his right was occupied with the IV.

"Agent Eppes, to answer your question, I've been told I'm the best stick in this whole place."

She expertly snapped the tourniquet around his bicep and wadded up the blankets under his elbow to straighten his limb. While waiting for the little vein to pop up in the crook of his arm, she swabbed the area with alcohol.

"Make a fist for me, please. … Oh my, that's a good one! All right, here we go."


	3. Part 3

_Part 3_

"So why'd you help him?" Megan asked from her perch on the interrogation table.

Colby just stood in the background, looking menacing. David watched the monitors in the control room with his hands laced across his belly. Don couldn't be here for this, but he'd done his part already. All the team needed to know now was just how much of an accomplice Chandler Yates had in Lyndsey Fuller, and they wanted to interrogate her today before they headed out to visit Don at UCLA.

Fuller looked miserably at the table. "I just let him stay at my house. That's _it_, that's all I did."

"Were you two sleeping together?" Megan asked calmly.

There was a pause while Lyndsey stared at her. "Look at me," she said at last. "Do I look like his type?"

Lyndsey didn't look like anyone's type, especially not after spending last night in a holding cell with minimal opportunities to wash up this morning. Megan forcefully derailed her train of thought from that unkind track and brought herself back to the business at hand.

"Just answer the question, Miss Fuller."

She scoffed. "No, all right? No. He's just a friend."

"… Who you allowed to stay at your house."

"I've been staying with my mom," the other woman explained. "She had a stroke about a month and a half ago, and home care is so damn expensive. My sister takes days and I've been taking nights, so I figured as long as I wasn't home, I'd let him sleep at my place. I mean, come on! He had nowhere to go! Finding a job was really tough for him, and his mom wouldn't help him out."

"Yeah, I bet he was really hard up," Colby said sarcastically.

"Did you know that he had a beach house in Santa Monica, Lyndsey?" Megan asked. "Right near the bar? And a trust fund?" She had her answer in Lyndsey's wide eyes. "This guy wasn't always hard up for money. He was playing you."

Fuller seemed to crumple at this information. "He said I was the best friend he ever had," she murmured in a low, choked voice. "He asked me to help him. He called me and told me to meet his mom and get some money from her. I was supposed to get back to my house and give him the money, and he said he'd give me some of it to help care for _my_ mom."

"Why?" Megan pressed. "Why did he make you get the money?"

"Because he was afraid. He said he was scared to see his mother. He figured she was pretty angry with him, and that was why she cut him off in the first place. So I went to get the money. And then you guys showed up."

"And you had _no idea_ the real reason he was afraid to come out into the open? _No idea_ what was transpiring in your house when you weren't home at night? Come on."

"I work days at the bar, and nights I was at my mom's," Lyndsey said, looking at the table's veneer and sounding exhausted. "There are lots of people who can confirm that. I moved most of my stuff to my mom's place – clothes, books, everything. I haven't been home for nearly six weeks. And yes, I believed him about why he was afraid." She sniffed then, and her eyes wouldn't move from the table. "I didn't know he killed anybody. He was nice to me. And besides, he's dead. What the hell do you _want_ from me?" she asked finally and started to cry, pulling a crumpled packet of tissues from her pocket. One of them ripped free and she blew her nose, looking rather embarrassed to be falling apart in the interrogation room.

That was when Megan really looked at Lyndsey Fuller. She took in the messy hair, the pouchy eyes, the fat hanging in all the wrong places … here was a woman with no time to take care of herself. She was burning the candle at both ends, trying to live her own life while managing the life of another, lured by sweet words and hampered by her own exhaustion-damaged judgment, fooled into doing something helpful for a man who had turned out to be a serial killer. She was lucky to have escaped this mess alive.

"What do you think I can give you?" she sobbed.

_Closure_, Megan thought. _You're giving me closure. Because Don shot the bastard who did this, and there's no way you were a knowing accomplice. It's all over._ She turned and looked at Colby, and realized he was thinking the same thing. He nodded.

"Look after your mother, Miss Fuller," Megan said. "You're free to go."

It took Lyndsey a moment to realize she was being spoken to. "W-What?"

"Come on, let's go," Colby said, coming forward to help her up. "Someone will call you a cab. Just don't leave town or anything."

* * *

Don woke up from the repeated taps on his shoulder and blinked. He was in the passenger seat of Charlie's little blue Prius, where he'd dozed off just as they'd left the hospital, staring at surroundings he didn't understand.

He was tired. Dad had left pretty soon after he'd woken up (he'd made some excuse about "getting ready") so it was just him and Charlie for a little while. It was actually kind of peaceful, with the exception of the playful teasing and the not-so-playful accusation that he had changed the ringtone on Charlie's cell phone, which he vehemently denied but found hilarious nevertheless. It was kind of fun just to laugh like an idiot with no witnesses and watch his little brother get his "Sherlock Holmes" on. Charlie was pacing around, muttering to himself about the clever trap he was going to set to catch the perpetrator if they tried it again.

The team stopped by around one o'clock to tell him that the case was over. Lyndsey Fuller had only been Yates's pawn. And while she now had a file with the FBI for her trouble, at least Yates hadn't had the chance to take the money from her and then possibly snap and kill her, too. Don nodded solemnly.

"We'll need your report on the shooting when you have the energy. They're giving you two days off, right?" Megan asked.

"Yeah, except they're counting _today_ as one of them," Don said.

"Lame," Colby muttered. David nodded.

Megan smiled. "All right, so we'll see you on Friday. Take it easy, yeah?" she said, patting his knee through the blankets. She looked very pleased to see him sitting up and alert, as did the others.

"Will do." Don smiled.

Hands were shaken all around, and they left.

Lunch was delivered. The tiny bowl of soup was basically edible, even though it was way too salty, but he couldn't bring himself to eat the green-flavored Jello (not lime-flavored, _green_-flavored). Charlie was getting himself something from the cafeteria, so Don pushed the green goop around on the plate to make an artful design. He had to keep his right arm straight for the IV; doing it left-handed made it a hell of a challenge, but he pressed on and just completed a wobbly airplane when Charlie came back.

The plate was immediately snorted at, shoved aside, and replaced by some edible contraband, courtesy of his surprisingly devious younger brother – two of those Sara Lee "bagels" that didn't really qualify as such, a little tub of cream cheese, and two plastic packets of strawberry jam, along with a knife and some napkins. Charlie had brought it all up from the cafeteria in the pockets of his hoodie. He dumped his haul on the little rolling table that hovered over Don's lap, and without a word spread cream cheese on one bagel and the jam on the other.

"Have I told you lately you're a genius?" Don said, watching him work.

Charlie just grinned, flopped into the visitor's chair, and tore into his sandwich. Don made short work of the bagels and drank some water. A few minutes later, Charlie was licking mayonnaise off his fingers and staring off into space. Don was eyeing the gelatin like a suspect who hadn't showered, wondering what to do with it. He certainly wasn't going to eat it. But Charlie, who had apparently decided to go all the way with this accomplice thing, saw the problem, scooped it up with the spoon and plopped it into his empty sandwich wrapper. He tucked that into a brown paper bag, and then buried it deeply in the room's trash can, the one marked with the biohazard sign. Don laughed.

Since he now had food in him and could think a little straighter, it suddenly dawned on him that Charlie probably had classes to teach. He asked him about it, but his brother just waved him off. He'd cancelled class today, Larry was covering for him tomorrow, and all he had on Friday were office hours, which he could cancel too if necessary.

"Students generally tend to e-mail with questions anyway," he explained, pouring a little of Don's water onto his mustard-stained hands and wringing them to get rid of the stickiness off his fingers. "Besides, finals aren't for two weeks. They haven't even _begun_ to panic yet."

A bit later he had a short, wobbly walk to the bathroom down the hall. Charlie was at his heels there and back. And then Dr. Huang came in with his tox screen results at around 2:30. He was good to go. The IV came out, the site got bandaged, and finally the heart monitor was powered down and the leads came off.

"Hey, you match," Charlie said, laughing.

Don frowned in puzzlement at this statement and then noticed that he had a little inch-high ace wrap around each elbow, with gauze pressed into the crook. One was from the IV and the other was from the blood draw. Both were the same color as the Jello. He sighed, but barely had a moment to reflect on this before some clothes landed in his lap: underwear, socks, a white shirt, a blue windbreaker, and a pair of black track pants. Charlie was setting a pair of old tennis shoes on the floor and zipping up a small travel bag. He clapped his brother gently on the shoulder.

"Okay, go ahead and get dressed. I'll be out in the hall."

Don relished the two minutes of complete privacy that followed. He managed to dress himself and wriggle into his old shoes, and when he got off the bed he found that he was actually pretty steady and much less dizzy, a welcome improvement from just a few hours ago. When he got to the door and opened it, Charlie looked up from where he was leaning on the opposite wall. A nurse was waiting next to him with a wheelchair. Don pulled up short, instantly suspicious.

"Ready to get out of here?" Charlie asked, sounding a little tired.

"Definitely. I don't need that, do I?"

"Hospital policy," the nurse said in a flat, no-nonsense tone. "Have a seat."

Don looked at Charlie. His younger brother seemed defeated, as though he'd just had an argument with the nurse about this and lost. Don didn't say a word. If _Charlie_ hadn't been able to win a verbal argument against this woman, then he might as well forget it. He sat. The nurse kicked up the brakes and they were on their way.

"I got all your paperwork taken care of," Charlie said from where he walked on the left, and handed him a black baseball cap. "I'll give you a ride home."

"Hey, thanks, Charlie."

"Don't worry about it."

When they got to the lobby and almost to the doors, Don saw that the Prius had been pulled around. He got out of the chair, walked with Charlie to the car, and dropped into the passenger seat with a slight grunt. They took off and he fell asleep, imagining that they would soon arrive at his apartment building, where he would kretz up the three flights of stairs, stagger into his place, and fall into bed.

Instead, they seemed to be in the driveway of the Craftsman house in Pasadena.

"Okay, we're here," Charlie said, putting the car in park.

"Charlie, I thought you said you were taking me home," Don replied, confused.

"I did."

"Not _your_ home … _my_ home. My apartment."

Charlie looked a little pensive, and then quoted the doctor. "You sustained a head injury. For the first twenty four hours after release, you can't be alone." He reached into the back seat and snagged the little paper bag from the pharmacy. Don had been dead asleep when he'd run in to pick up the prescription ointment. "Besides, you really think Dad's in the mood to climb all those stairs in your building?"

Don groaned and scrubbed at his eyes, almost catching the lip of his baseball cap. It covered up most of the small band-aids on the back of his head. Damn it, he had a good argument against staying at Charlie's house … somewhere. It was hiding out in his fuzzy head, wily and elusive. And he was so sleepy.

"Come on, don't fight me on this. Just stay."

Don sighed.

"You should at least have dinner and stay the night."

"Charlie…"

"Please?"

The request was quiet and honest. Don looked askance at his younger brother's innocent, subtly pleading expression.

He muttered some unsavory words under his breath, all of them born of frustration. One day, he swore to himself, _one day_ he would figure out a way to resist that look. He opened his car door with a resigned sigh.

Alan looked out the window at the two of them and smiled a little. Charlie sure knew when and how to play his "I'm the baby, gotta love me" card. He was at just the right angle to catch Charlie's sly smirk of triumph.

When the two brothers made their way into the house, Don trailing Charlie, Alan came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish rag. Don only had a moment to take in the living room couch, his frequent late-night crash spot. It was mercifully free of pillows and blankets. He nodded at his father.

"I figured you'd prefer the guest bedroom," Alan said simply, and smiled. "Bed beats couch, after all."

"No kidding," Don replied, smiling back.

Charlie's hand was soon on his back and gently pushing him towards the stairs. Together they shuffled up to the second floor, and Charlie stayed at his side all the way down the hall to the guest room.

It had been Don's as a child. The room no longer had his stuff in it, but it had been made up to go with the rest of the house. The maroon comforter went well with the masculine wood furniture and warm lighting. The bed wasn't even turned down. It was homey and comfortable, but it was clear that nobody was about to fuss over him. Perfect. Don sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling exhausted and unable to figure out why. He hadn't done all that much today. He gingerly took off his baseball cap and set it on the night stand. Peeled off his windbreaker. Handed it to Charlie.

"You're tired," Charlie observed. He checked his watch. "Look, it's almost four. Why don't you have a nap, and I'll wake you for dinner? We'll eat around six."

A nap and dinner. That sounded amazingly good. Don looked down at his feet. A nap would require him stretching out on the bed, which would require taking his tennis shoes off. But taking his tennis shoes off would require energy, and he wasn't sure where that energy would come from. And then he saw Charlie looking at his shoes, and Charlie realizing, and Charlie moving to help him, and it magically appeared.

He brought one foot up over the opposite knee and pulled off one shoe, then the other, letting them fall to the floor with a clatter. He even managed to get his legs up on the bed and maneuver his lightly throbbing head onto the comforter-covered pillow. He lay still for a moment, feeling a tad smug. He had managed pretty well on his own, and he figured Charlie would hang up his windbreaker somewhere and take off. He closed his eyes.

So it surprised him a little when the quilt landed on him. It tickled his chin and pooled all over him, covering him completely. He straightened his feet under the soft material and made mountains. And then another surprise: an arm lifted him up a little and an extra pillow was stuffed behind him. It eased the pressure at the back of his head right away. Okay, this was acceptable. Nice, even. Still …

"Hey," he managed. "Charlie, knock it off. You don't need to do that."

"Shut up, Don," Charlie said.

It was the tenderest rendition of that sentence he'd ever heard. Footsteps retreated, and the lights flicked off.

* * *

"… Ahem."

Don opened his eyes and looked up. "Mom?"

Margaret Eppes was sitting on the side of his bed, smiling. "Hi, honey," she said.

"Wha… What are you are you doing here?" Don asked.

Margaret sighed a little. "Well, I asked your father to give my love to you, but he forgot. It's not his fault; he's tired. So I figured, you want something done right, do it yourself."

Don smiled. Seeing his mother here was a mixed bag. She'd always been a funny, witty person to talk to. Of course, there was the slight problem with her being dead, and all the crap that came with it. His smile faded.

"Wait a minute. You talked to Dad?" Then he remembered the dream his brother had described. "And Charlie?"

"Mm hm. I really didn't want to bother you, but since you're available now, I decided I'd come by." She ruffled his hair, and put a hand on his forehead. "How are you feeling, Donnie? And no law-enforcement euphemisms. You can't fool a lawyer with those."

So Don was honest. "Really tired. They won't let me back to work until Friday, my head hurts, and I'm getting hungry. But other than that …"

"You're okay?"

"I think so, yeah." He looked at her. "How are Dad and Charlie? They didn't freak out when they found out what happened to me, did they?"

His mother raised an eyebrow. "They worried a little bit. Not that they weren't entitled. But as soon as they realized this was all going to turn out fine, they got a grip. Your father's done well. Made too much food and cleaned the house a little obsessively, perhaps, but that's not such a bad thing. And Charlie … God, he was a paperwork machine at the hospital. He made sure you got out of UCLA with no hang-ups, and got you home safe." She adjusting the quilt a little and tucking it around his shoulders.

Don let her. "I'm proud of them," he said.

"I am too. And you. I'm proud of you. Just…" Margaret rolled her eyes. "I know this is probably pointless advice considering what you do for a living, but _try_ to stay out of trouble, would you? At least just _try_?"

Don smiled. "I'll do my best."

"I know," she said, cupping his face. "You always do."

She was getting a little fainter. "Well, thanks for stopping by," Don said quietly.

"Thanks for having me," she replied, and kissed his forehead. "I love you."

"Love you too," he murmured, feeling himself sinking back into the great black whatever, that place he'd left to be with his mother for a little while. He yawned.

"Oh, and Don?" his mother said. She was fading fast, but her voice was a strong as ever.

"Yeah?"

"Wake up _immediately_ when Charlie comes to get you for dinner. No monkeying around. You play possum and it'll really scare him, and he doesn't need more stress. Am I clear?"

"Crystal."

"All right, then." He felt her fingertips on his eyelids, pulling them down.

* * *

"Don?"

"Whuh? Mom?"

A small, slightly nervous laugh. "No Don, it's Charlie. Dinner's on. Come on man, get up."

Don mumbled something unintelligible and opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the light in the room. His belly growled fiercely, and he brought a hand up to rub it. A glance around the room located Charlie, who was sitting on the end of the bed, bouncing slightly.

"You know, you look better already," he said. "I think that nap did you a lot of good."

_You have no idea_, Don thought. Helet Charlie help him up, threw the quilt off and swung his legs over the side of the bed, only to find a pair of house slippers sitting where his tennis shoes had been. He snapped his eyes toward his brother, prepared to get angry.

"Your shoes are over there," Charlie said, correctly interpreting the glare and pointing to the opposite corner of the room. "I just figured you wouldn't be going running tonight."

And Don deflated. _Oh._ "True," he said, slipping his feet into the slippers and standing slowly.

The two of them went out the door, side by side, and they slowly took the stairs.

"Hey, that smells good. What's for dinner?"

"Uh, something gourmet. Two French dishes, neither of which I can pronounce. Poor Dad, man. He bought all this fancy-shmancy food to make something that would impress the caterer, and instead he's wasting it on us."

"He cancelled a date? Charlie …"

"I couldn't stop him. He says he bought all this highly perishable stuff, and he didn't want anything to go bad. Apparently he called her to cancel while Megan was driving them to the hospital. And hey, we can be just as grateful as any caterer, right?"

"Well, since neither of us has, you know, any idea of what we're about to eat, I'd say our odds of having to _look_ grateful and sneak in some take-out are fifty-fifty."

"Hey, Dad can cook, it's not like he doesn't know what he's doing! … Don, are you all right?"

"M' a little dizzy. I think I just need to get some food in me. … Why is it so dark? It's six, right? Is it going to rain?"

"It's not six o'clock. It's closer to eight."

"EIGHT? I was napping for four hou – Charlie, you said dinner was gonna be early!"

"The hell do _you_ care? You were asleep! And you clearly needed the rest … don't look at me like that!"

"Man, no wonder my stomach sounds like a pissed-off mountain lion," Don grumbled. "Did Dad burn something and start over?"

Charlie made "pff" noise. "I wish. This gourmet thing is way out of control – I'll have to talk to him. He's been cooking all day. Dessert took him like, an hour. It's been chilling in the refrigerator while he made dinner."

Apparently Don had only registered one word in that entire response. "Dessert? A'riiight. Now you're speaking my language. What did he make?"

Charlie sighed. They took the last step and moved slowly to the dining room. The table was set for three, and a basket of biscuits sat next to a dish warmer. "Again. French. Unpronounceable. But judging by the containers in the trash, there's little pie shells and raspberries involved. So how bad can it be?"

"Hey, are you guys coming or what?" Alan shouted, backing out of the swinging door with a steaming soup pot. "It's on the…" He turned around with the vessel and saw Don and Charlie sitting down, both looking amused at his unnecessarily loud voice.

"… Table."

Don couldn't resist. He pretended to clean one ear with a finger. "You say something, Dad?"

Charlie started laughing. Alan tried to look annoyed with his sons, but that meant successfully fighting off a smile and he couldn't do it, even though he was pursing his lips pretty hard. "Smart ass. Here." He put the pot down on the table and handed Don a ladle. "_Coq au vin_," he announced, and went back into the kitchen for dish number two.

Charlie looked at his brother in confusion. "Well, at least it smells good. That's promising."

Don smiled, and ladled out a serving into a bowl. Big chunks of fragrant vegetables and tender thigh meat slopped in. _Unbelievable. Give Dad a refrigerator full of gourmet ingredients and he makes chicken soup._ Don topped off his bowl with a ladle-full of the sauce, a heady mixture of red wine and other fragrant things. "This is chicken with wine sauce," he explained to Charlie.

"Seriously?" Charlie asked, looking a little warily at the pot.

Don laughed. "Yeah, man, that's what _coq au vin_ means."

He got a spoonful of the sauce, blew on it, and sipped. For a moment, he was completely still, tasting it. Deciding it was good – foreign but good – he dug in again. Charlie, he then noticed, hadn't moved for the ladle and was watching him like a hawk.

"What's the matter with you? Eat. C'mon. It tastes good."

Charlie, much to his amusement, looked a little embarrassed and accepted a clean bowl. He stood up to ladle himself some dinner. Mid-pour, Don darted a hand under his arm to grab a biscuit from the basket.

"Hey, hey, watch it! This stuff's hot. If you're not careful, I'll spill it on your head," Charlie chided.

"You do that and you'll get a pea in your ear," Don threatened.

"Okay guys, here's the other course," Alan said, coming back in with a platter and setting it on the table. "_Salade de frizze avec des fruits de mer_," he said proudly, proving that long French phrases and thick New York accents didn't mix.

Don and Charlie stared at the salad. The greens were basically recognizable – it was that fluffy, nearly-white lettuce that looked almost like lace – but very little else was. The _frizze_ was covered in finely chopped vegetables and what Don assumed were different kinds of seafood. The whole thing was coated in some kind of oil and vinegar dressing and smelled … pungent. The brothers looked at each other in dismay as their father found his chair, knowing they'd have to try this too and probably pretend it was good. Oh, well. There were far worse fates. They made no move towards it, and instead continued eating their chicken while Alan served himself.

"Well, one out of two ain't bad," Don mumbled to Charlie, just under the clank of silverware.

"Beats most batting averages," Charlie conceded around a mouthful of chicken. "Besides, there's always dessert."

Don nodded. This was true. The three of them ate in silence for a bit, until Alan realized his sons hadn't made a move towards the greens.

"Here, Don, pass me your plate. I'll serve you some salad," he said.

Don, who was kind of hoping his father had somehow forgotten about the salad in the past few minutes, said, "Uh, sure, here you go." He lifted up his bowl and passed his plate over.

Charlie was not feeling quite as courageous. He stood up. "I'll go get the salt and pepper," he said, and got up to walk to the kitchen.

"Salt and pepper?" Alan asked. "Charlie, we got the sha– … huh. How strange. They're not here. All right, yeah, please, go get the shakers." Then he sensed something was amiss, and looked shiftily at his younger son. "This wouldn't be a ploy to get out of trying the salad, would it?"

"No," Charlie said, looking a little guilty. He escaped into the kitchen.

Don snorted. "Hey Dad, ask him about the mysterious prankster at the FBI who changed the ringer on his cell phone," he said, loud enough so his brother could hear him. "He'll be back and ranting in five seconds."

Charlie was clattering stuff in the kitchen, presumably looking for the salt and pepper shakers. His voice floated out through the swinging door.

"No I won't. Besides, I'm fairly sure it was you!"

Alan smiled. So did Don.

"Charlie, for the last time, it wasn't me!" Don called, trying to sound exasperated. He quickly lowered his voice and muttered to his father, "It was totally me." He called out again: "It must have been Colby!" Alan was shaking with silent laughter.

"Oh, yeah? What makes you say that?" Charlie asked, coming back through with the shakers and setting them on the table. Fortunately his attention was focused on Don. Alan got himself under control just in time.

"Because Megan's too busy, David's too nice, and I don't play practical jokes. They're a waste of everybody's time," Don said, allowing Alan to snatch up Charlie's plate and serve him an intimidating heap of the _frizze_ dish.

"I have a team to lead. I can't get caught up in nonsense like that," Don finished, sounding every inch the authority figure. _Sorry, Colby. I'll make it up to you somehow._ "Eat your salad."

Charlie glared at him. "You first."

* * *

The salad was a disaster but the chicken was a hit, and dessert was a grand slam. Alan brought out three baked tart shells on a plate, each nearly overflowing with rich, raspberry-flavored custard, spiked with blackcurrant liqueur (_bavarois au cassis et aux framboises_). The completed tarts had been topped with powdered sugar and mint. The presentation was jaw-dropping.

It eased the "coercion" along. Halfway through dinner, Don had informed his family that he planned to leave the next day around noon. He was very grateful for the food and the bed, but he knew they both had things to do, all their protests to the contrary, and he didn't want to put anybody out. By the time the tarts had disappeared, however, Alan had convinced him to stay at the house for his remaining day of mandatory R and R.

So he slept in, ate well, rested up, and went back to work on Friday, looking and feeling much better. His team greeted him happily. He still wasn't cleared for field duty, but that would be coming soon.

Saturday was a bit of a wash. He spent it at his apartment, taking care of some basic housecleaning crap and finishing paperwork. But Sunday was much better. At his father and Charlie's invitation, he stopped by the house to watch an afternoon ballgame and ended up staying for dinner.

At eight o'clock, Don had sort of lost track of everybody. He was alone at the dinner table with a beer, going through his report on the shooting and trying to remember what happened, closing his eyes and moving his hand around to place bullets he only half-remembered firing. The kitchen door swung open.

Don looked up just Charlie stumbled through it, a little surprised to see him. Charlie was bleary-eyed, and looked … a bit like he'd seen a ghost, actually. Without reservation he walked over and put a hand on his brother's shoulder, as though confirming Don was real and whole.

"Hey," he said quietly.

THE END

* * *

I wanted to end this so that everybody could enjoy it, whether they were doing The Experiment or not.

If you're not experimenting, this is the end of the story. Yay!

If you _are_, then please ignore everything after the words "staying for dinner" (that would be the last two paragraphs), go back to your recording of "Hot Shot," and watch the end of the episode. I'd be very curious to see who tries this and what they think.

Thanks for reading and commenting!

Kiki :o)


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